


That Ugly Black Sweater

by HidingintheInkwell



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Can be read as slash or platonic, Future Napoleon/Illya if you squint, Gaby & Illya are just friends, Gen, Missions Gone Wrong, Presumed Dead, that ugly black sweater
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28038036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HidingintheInkwell/pseuds/HidingintheInkwell
Summary: Before a mission, Illya can't find his sweater (we all know the one) so he leaves it behind. Something goes wrong, and when he finally comes back home, he finds it in a rather unexpected place.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	That Ugly Black Sweater

**Author's Note:**

> I'm awful at summaries but trust me, it's cute and well worth the read!!

“Gabby, have you seen my sweater?”

Gabby looked up from where she was reading a magazine on the sofa to see Illya standing in the doorway, half-full suitcase visible on the bed behind him. She shrugged. “No idea. Don’t you have others?” Illya shook his head, eyes shifting over their shared living room like the sweater in question was hiding somewhere. “That is my only black one, and I would hate for the grey one you gifted me to get destroyed on mission.” Gabby nodded in vague understanding before turning back to her magazine. At that same moment, Napoleon came out from the kitchen wiping his hands on his apron. “What is our Russian Giant looking for this time? If it’s his sense of humor, I’m afraid that might be a lost cause.”

Gabby hid a snort behind her magazine and Illya huffed out a sigh. “No,  _ Cowboy,  _ I am looking for my black sweater. Waverly is sending car soon and I cannot finish packing without it.” Napoleon shook his head. “That ugly old thing? I wouldn’t be surprised if Nancy had mistaken it for one of Gabby’s grease rags and tossed it in the garbage. Honestly, Peril, I’m surprised you haven’t replaced it yet. The thing is practically falling apart at the seams.” Illya rolled his eyes and was opening his mouth for a retort when a honk from the street below informed them that his ride was there. The Russian shook his head, hurrying back over to double check the contents of his suitcase before shutting it. “Whatever, Cowboy. I will be back soon. Gabby, take care of Cowboy. Make sure he stays out of trouble.”

Napoleon’s indignant retort and Gabby’s laughter were muted by the door as Illya shut it behind him. He felt a familiar pang in his chest as the comforting sounds faded, but he reminded himself firmly that he was being ridiculous. The mission was only going to last a month and then he’d be home. It wasn’t like he’d never see them again. 

* * *

Illya rubbed the grit from his eyes as he left Waverly’s office. The debrief had taken longer than normal, due in part to the health check he’d been forced to sit through. By this point he was tired, sore, and the only thing he wanted to do was go home and sleep. What U.N.C.L.E had estimated to be a simple month long in-and-out mission had ended up turning into a three month rescue mission. Something had gone wrong with their intel and when Illya had turned up at what was supposed to be his temporary safe house, he’d found their mark and about fifty of his men waiting in ambush. He’d been knocked unconscious and taken to a location outside of U.N.C.L.E’s radar. It had taken two months for them to track his location and another month to get him free and complete the mission. 

“We are terribly sorry about that, Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly had apologized when Illya was back at headquarters in New York and being begrudgingly checked over in the infirmary. “We will be doing a follow up with the source of that particular intel and investigate whether it was an accident or an act of sabotage. In the meantime, I am sure you want to get back to the apartment and get some rest. Ms. Teller is away meeting with another agent and likely will not be back before tomorrow, though she has been informed of your safe recovery and return. Mr. Solo should be there, though. When you see him would you kindly ask him to turn back on his communicator? We’ve had to use Ms. Teller to pass on messages for some time now.”

Illya nodded and hopped off the exam table, offering a quick thank you to the nurse before making a quick break for the door. As his hand touched the handle, though, he heard Waverly speak up again. “Oh, and Mr. Kuryakin? It’s good to have you back in one piece.” Illya offered another nod, features softening before he was through the door and in the car that would take him back to his shared apartment. 

The lights were off and the apartment was quiet when he stepped in, which immediately put him on edge. It wasn’t spectacularly late, and it wasn’t like the hour would affect Solo. The man always insisted on a record or the radio be playing and no less than two lamps be on, claiming that the dark and quiet were sins when there was such beauty in the world. Illya and Gabby had a secret agreement that he just didn’t like how much it reminded him of Prison or his time with the CIA, but so long as he kept the noise to reasonable hours they didn’t say anything about it. This, though… this was not normal for any of them. Waverly had said Solo was supposed to be there, and if Solo was anywhere, it was a guarantee of music and light and the smell of food. What greeted him beyond the threshold was darkness and silence and air that had gone slightly stale. Either Waverly had been mistaken (which he rarely was) or something was wrong. 

Senses on high alert, Illya stepped into the shared apartment and let the door click shut behind him. The room was cold, the air still and heavy like that of a tomb and he fought off the urge to turn on a lamp. If there was someone waiting on him, best not to give them too much information to his whereabouts. He crept forward on silent feet, ears strained for any signs as his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. The curtains had been thrown open to let the moon pool in the middle of the living room, turning everything silver. He paused, letting his eyes search the room. The old clock on the mantle ticked loudly, nearly drowning out the pounding in Illya’s ears, and the dying embers of a fire glowed behind the grate, having burned down to ashes several hours ago, judging by appearances. He fought off a shudder, realizing for the first time just how chilled the room was. Signs of life were everywhere; forgotten mugs on the bookcase, abandoned magazines on the coffee table, a pair of shoes (Solo’s, judging by the size) kicked off in the general direction of the hall, and Gabby’s coat tossed over the back of a chair. 

He felt his heart rate slowing. No outward signs of an intruder. But where was Solo? Illya took another step into the living room, ears strained passed the ticking of the clock until he caught the near silent, slow sounds of someone breathing. Too deep and even to be someone awake and waiting on him. His eyes searched the grey washed living room, landing on a near shapeless shadow on the sofa. He took a few steps forward until the shadow became a person. Solo was curled up as much as the limited space would allow, back to the room but ribcage rising and falling evenly. His usually sleek curls were wild and unkempt and he looked like he had not shaved for several days, something Illya thought would not have been possible. Even tortured this man had managed to stay nearly immaculate, his only comment being he’d left his favorite coat behind in the fire. 

He was dressed in a worn looking pair of flannel sleep pants and a dark sweater that hung off his frame like a too-big skin. Illya frowned. There was something familiar about… 

It hit him. Solo was wearing  _ Illya’s _ sweater. The one he’d been looking for before the mission. The one the thief made constant fun of him for, threatening jokingly on more than one occasion to “accidentally” drop it into the incinerator. He’d found it somewhere, or maybe he’d stolen it in the first place? But what was he doing wearing it?

The thoughts were still bouncing in his head when he heard the lock on the door click behind him and he was turning, hand reaching for a gun that wasn’t there, body on instant alert. But the figure who slipped through the gap and closed it silently behind them was slight, small, and moved with a practiced ease. Illya watched as she shed her coat and slipped off her heels, padding forward on stockinged feet like it was something she’d done more than once in the last several months. He wondered if he should make some kind of noise, something to let her know he was there, but he worried equally about startling her and waking Solo. Something told him the American had not slept much lately. 

His contemplation took too long, and before he knew it Gabby was stepping into the living room, eyes going to where Napoleon slept before realizing there was someone else in the room with them. Her eyes went wide in the moonlight before she realized who it was, the startled expression fading into one of relief. “Illya,” she whispered, tension draining out of her. Illya smiled. “Hello, Chop Shop Girl,” he replied, voice as low a rumble as he could manage. Behind him, a pained sound escaped Napoleon and he shifted, but didn’t wake. Gabby’s eyes looked sad as she gazed at the man on the sofa, setting her shoes down and slipping past Illya to grab an old quilt from the lounge and gently drape it over the sleeping man, running a motherly hand through his hair before turning back to the Russian and nodding in the direction of the hall. 

Illya nodded, picking up her shoes for her and following. Gabby led him to her room, closing the door before she turned on a light, leaving them both blinking temporarily. Once their eyes had adjusted, Gabby’s face broke out in a grin and she wrapped him in a warm, welcoming hug. One that he returned eagerly. “Waverly told me they’d gotten you home. I wrapped up my meeting as soon as I could so I could be here waiting on you.” She let go and stepped back, leaving Illya feeling oddly cold. “Are you sure you’re alright? They said you were, but I need to hear it from you. I don’t trust them not to lie.” The look on her face was so serious Illya couldn't help but smile. “I am fine, promise. A little bruised and sore, but I am fine. And the two of you?” His unasked question hung in the air between them, but Gabby seemed to hear it anyway, smile turning sad again as she motioned for him to take a seat, sinking onto the foot of her bed and tucking her feet beneath her. 

“He’s been like that for a while now. When we got the news that you’d gone missing, he’d been furious, demanding that U.N.C.L.E send out a rescue party immediately, but Waverly had shut him down, saying they couldn’t afford to send out a full team until they had a lead to where you had been taken…” Illya felt ice settle in his throat. The unspoken  _ until they knew you were still alive _ ringing clear. “They sent us on a couple missions about two months ago, thinking maybe it would keep him busy, keep his mind off everything. He completed them, but he wasn’t Napoleon, he was like a robot. He stopped going into the office a few weeks ago, turned his phone off so Waverly couldn’t get a hold of him.”

Gabby paused, eyes bright in the lamplight as she looked past Illya, like she could see through the walls to where their dark haired companion slept fitfully on the sofa. “I came home one day, around the time you’d been scheduled to be back and found him sitting at the table staring at that sweater. I guess he’d found it in the laundry. It must have gotten mixed in somewhere. He’d told me he was going to fold it and leave it in your dresser, pretend it had been there the whole time and you’d just missed it. I think he’s probably slept in it every night since. He tried to hide it for a while, but I came home one night and he was asleep in one of the chairs wearing it. He didn’t try to hide it from me after that.”

Illya felt like his chest was being crushed. Gabby drew in a breath and met his gaze. “He cares about you, you know. He cares about us both, of course, but for as much as he picks and teases, he cares about you very deeply.” There was something in her expression that he couldn’t read. He saw happiness, that was to be expected, but it was shadowed by a sadness that lingered in her eyes every time she glanced in the direction of the living room. “Should we move him to his room?” He asked, voice surprisingly hoarse. Gabby shook his head. “No, he’ll be fine. Early on I would wake him up and try and get him to go to his room, but somehow he would always be back on the couch when I got up in the morning. I think, in a way, he believes that if he’s out there, if he’s waiting up…” 

Illya didn’t need her to finish, he simply nodded and stood up. “Go to sleep, Chop Shop Girl,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss against her bangs. “I will see you in the morning.” Gabby smiled and wished him a good night, and then Illya was slipping out the door, once again finding himself in darkness. He stood there for a long moment, contemplating the number of steps that would carry him to his room, and the number that would take him back down the hall to where Napoleon was. His feet moved before he’d fully made his decision. The moon had shifted, casting it’s spotlight across the row of bookshelves Napoleon had insisted upon. The American had rolled onto his back, one arm draped over his eyes while the other held his torso like he was in pain. Stubble shadowed his jawline, and Illya found himself oddly relieved that the smaller man had not grown a beard in the time he’d been gone. 

His chest rose and fell once, twice beneath the borrowed (stolen) sweater. His mouth was parted just slightly between breaths. While Illya watched, Napoleon went tense, mouth pinching around a pained sound before relaxing again. He looked young. Vulnerable. The blanket Gabby had draped over him had fallen to the ground. Silently, Illya crossed the room, bending to pick it up. As he made to drape it back over the sleeping man, a soft voice broke the silence. “Illya?” Illya looked up, startled, to find a pair of muddy blue eyes blinking sleepily at him. Napoleon was just barely awake, looking about two seconds from falling back to sleep. The Russian smiled. “Go back to sleep, Cowboy,” he murmured, watching Napoleon blink once… twice… before his eyes closed and didn’t reopen. 

Making sure the blanket was securely tucked around the other man, Illya turned and padded silently back to his room; cold but surprisingly clean. When he fell back against the sheets, he was surprised to find they smelled of laundry soap rather than dust and time. Stripping down to his shorts, he searched blindly through a drawer for a pair of sleep pants and a spare shirt before he was tumbling into the sheets, exhaustion he hadn’t known he was feeling dragging him under. 

* * *

He woke up to light flooding his room, the clock on his nightstand telling him it was well past nine, unusual for him even for after a mission. Pushing himself upright, he felt abused muscles protest, and resigned himself to a stiff day. He dressed slowly, opting for a worn pair of jeans and the sweater Gabby had gifted him last year. When he stepped into the hall, he could hear voices coming from the kitchen, rising and falling over the soft melody of the radio. He moved quietly. 

Gabby sat at the small kitchen table, one knee pulled up to her chest as she used to prop up her mug. She was smiling, watching Napoleon as he flipped pancakes on the stove. He’d changed into a pair of khaki trousers and a dark blue dress shirt, casualness a rather foreign concept to him. His hair was in need of a trim, but he’d brushed it back, curls falling loose around his ears without the product that typically tamed them. When he turned to hand Gabby a plate, Illya saw the brittle but genuine smile on his clean shaven face. Settling himself across from the girl, Napoleon took a sip from his own mug, smile fading into something more thoughtful. “I had the dream again, last night.” It was said casually, the way one might discuss the weather or the sighting of a coworker in a market. Gabby set her mug down. “Napoleon…”

“I’m convinced they’re becoming more frequent,” Napoleon continued, idly pushing his eggs around with his fork, but never bringing it up to take a bite. “It was so… ordinary. We were playing a game of chess, he was cheating of course, but it was just so normal, you know? And when I was starting to wake up, he stayed. It was the strangest thing, but I swear he was standing there in the living room, like I could have reached out to touch him.” 

Illya felt his heart climb into his throat. From where he stood, he could see Napoleon’s lost expression as he stared down at his breakfast, could see Gabby biting her lip, but neither of them could see him. The silence grew heavy, Gabby clearly unsure of what to say and Napoleon too lost in his thoughts, before the American was standing again, the smile on his face just a little too wide and a little too bright. Well, enough of that. How did your mission go? I assume Waverly sends you with a message for me.” Before Gabby could reply, Illya sucked in a breath and stepped into the kitchen. “He says you need to turn on your phone and stop ignoring him. Gabby is a person, not a carrier pigeon.” 

The air in the room fled. Gabby was biting her lip around a wide smile, likely trying not to laugh. Napoleon stood frozen, plate tilting dangerously in his hand as he stared at the Russian with wide eyes. There was a strong chance he’d even stopped breathing. Illya felt the corners of his mouth twitch. “What is wrong, Cowboy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Napoleon’s throat bobbed as he swallowed before suddenly he was moving, dropping his plate into the sink before leaning casually into the countertop. Illya would have believed it too had he not caught the shaking in the American’s hands or the way his legs trembled just slightly. “Honestly, Peril, can you blame me? With how pale you are, one could easily mistaken you for some great hulking spectre. You really should get out in the sun more, bring a little healthy color to you.”

The steady casualness of his words belied the way the color had drained away from his face. Gabby must have seen it too because before the American was even finished speaking, she was up and moving, pressing into Napoleon’s side, one hand on his shoulder. “He’s really here, Napoleon. He got back last night. He’s  _ home.”  _ The dark haired man nodded, head dropping forward until his chin rested against his chest, and his shoulders heaved with a deep if slightly shaky breath. He nodded again before looking up, eyes still wide and strangely bright, but some of the tension now gone from his body. It only took Illya’s mind a moment to process his next move before he was crossing the kitchen in three long strides and pulling the shorter man against him. 

It took approximately five seconds for Napoleon to go from board stiff to limp, sagging into Illya’s embrace. Gabby kept her hands pressed into his shoulder blades but shot Illya a raised eyebrow and a smirk. “I am here, Cowboy. Maybe if you had not turned off your phone, Waverly could have told you sooner and you could have saved yourself such a display of emotions. Honestly, you are worse than a preteen girl.” 

That got him a startled laugh and a small explicative before Napoleon was pushing away. “I meant what I said about getting out in the sun more, Peril,” he said, turning his damp face away from them and making his way back to the living room. “Next day off we get, we should really consider a trip to the beach. I hear Greece is lovely this time of year.” Gabby giggled before following him out of the kitchen and breaking off in the direction of her bedroom, but Illya lingered, leaning into the wall separating the kitchen from the living room. Napoleon was busying himself with the radio, flicking through the stations until he found something to his liking. He still looked a bit pale, but the tension was gone from his body and his smile looked genuine. 

“Oh, and Cowboy?” Napoleon looked up. “You can keep the sweater.” Those muddy blue eyes went wide before the shorter man was doubling over in laughter, being forced to lean against the table or risk falling over, and Illya decided that sound alone was worth all the trouble they'd gone through, and he would gladly risk a thousand missions gone wrong to hear it again, though maybe not quite so soon. 

~END~

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all loved!!! Kudos and Comments are ALWAYS loved!


End file.
